24
Wind stirred the juniper branches, momentarily bringing them across his sight line, obscuring the point where the scope’s crosshairs tracked his target. The man moved along the slope with a steady purpose, head bent, occasionally stooping to examine trail sign. He was a Native American, obviously a tribal policeman. Whoever he was, he was good. Damn good.
Jack doubted that even Harry could have tracked him like that. But Harry was dead, a victim of the one who had called himself the Rag Man. Now, except for Janet, the other members of Jack’s team were also dead, and if he didn’t get lucky very soon, deadly little Janet was going to join them.
Jack’s attention returned to the Indian cop who moved steadily along his back trail. Why was the man out here alone? If someone had found his trail, he would have expected choppers and an army of special ops folks trying to cut him off. Well, Jack didn’t have time to get curious. In a few seconds, the man would step out of the thick brush into which he had disappeared and then he would meet his ancestors.
The tribal cop emerged into the clearing. Jack let the crosshairs settle on the man’s throat. It was a downhill shot of about a hundred and fifty meters. The trajectory of the bullet would put it three-and-a-half inches above the aim point at this angle and range, just above the bridge of his nose. Just as he was about to tighten the muscles in his trigger finger, the Indian straightened, looking up the hill directly toward Jack’s hide position.
“Either squeeze that trigger or step out and talk to me.”
The man just stood there, his long, straight black hair hanging down over his shoulders—tall, proud, unafraid. Incredible.
Jack rose to his feet and stepped out into the open, his long stride taking him quickly down the slope toward the man who awaited his arrival. As he got within a dozen yards of the Indian, he recognized him. It was the cop he had seen on the news, the one who had been the first on the scene at the truck ambush, the one who had given the FBI so much trouble when they tried to intimidate him into cooperation.
“Jack Gregory, I presume.” The tribal cop spat a thin stream of tobacco.
“That’s right,” said Jack. “And you are?”
“Sergeant Jim Pino.”
“Ah yes, I saw you on TV.”
“You’ve been generating some press coverage yourself.”
“And you still thought it was a good idea to follow me by yourself?”
“Let’s cut the crap. I’m here because of what I found at the truck murder scene.”
“And what did you find?”
“What you wanted someone to find.”
“That’s why the FBI came down so hard on you? To see if you’d discovered something you hadn’t reported?”
“Nah. They did that because I’m Navajo. Gotta keep the red man in his place.”
“And that place doesn’t include federal crime scenes?” A thin smile creased Jack’s lips.
“They didn’t seem to think so.”
“What if I don’t like Indian cops either?”
“Doesn’t matter. You know something that makes the government want you very dead. From what I saw in the blood of those truck guards, I think I better know it too.”
Jack paused. The man standing before him knew he was as good as dead, but he had the gall to press Jack for information.
Pino spat again. “Where’s the girl? Dead?”
So the tribal cop had read the meaning of the blood on the trail. A hundred feet above Jack’s original hide position, Janet’s small body struggled for life. Why was it he felt compelled to waste the time required for this conversation? Perhaps he just wanted a few extra moments of delay before he was forced to make the choice, a choice as unpleasant as any Jack could remember.
“She will be soon if I keep standing here talking with you.”
“I know a place near here, an old cave hidden back in the cliffs. You’re going to need a place to hide and someone trustworthy to bring you some supplies.”
Jack laughed, his weapon rising to point at Jim Pino’s chest. “And if I let you take me there and let you go, you’ll take care of us?”
Pino’s black eyes locked with his. “Do what feels right.”
Jack’s voice hardened. “Well, Jim—”
“My friends call me Tall Bear.”
“Well, Jim,” Jack continued, “it took balls tracking me like this, and you got my attention about the guards’ blood. Doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“Okay.”
“Tell you what. Bring some supplies back here tomorrow evening, just before dark. I’ll consider your offer.”
“What about the information I need?”
Jack motioned with the barrel of his weapon. “Tomorrow.”
With a shrug, Jim Pino turned, walking away without a backward glance. Jack watched him until he had disappeared around a bend in the canyon. Then Jack began the climb back up the steep slope to the spot he had left Janet.
She hadn’t moved. As Jack bent to examine her, the sound of her breathing hurt his ears. No longer was her chest rising and falling with a weak regular rhythm as her breath sighed out. Now her breathing rattled deep in her chest. He touched her cheek with his fingertips, an action that left pale indentations that refused to pink out again.
Jack moved to Janet’s pack, rummaging around inside until he found three syringes and a needle. Although he didn’t care to think about what he was going to try, he had made his decision. It might kill her, or he might have to kill her even if it worked, but Jack wasn’t going to let her lie there drowning in her own fluids.
The vials were labeled with a blue alcohol marker. Priest. Driver. Guard. The blood inside had long since thawed. Three different vials. Probably three different blood types. Each one massively infested with the Rho Project nanites.
Most likely the nanites had long since become inoperative, the blood in the vials rancid. Even if this worked, the stuff would probably leave Janet as insane as Priest had been. As Jack attached the needle to the first of the three vials and slid it into a vein in Janet’s arm, he took a deep breath. It didn’t matter. He would give her this one last chance at life.
~
Far down the canyon, the sound of the scream brought Tall Bear to an abrupt halt. On and on it went, the sound magnified by echoes from opposing canyon walls. As he listened, the small hairs along the base of his neck rose up. He had heard that same scream last night from the Navajo people in his dream.
For a long moment, he stared back in the direction he had come from. Then, with a shake of his head, Tall Bear turned away, continuing his journey back to the truck. The girl was Gregory’s problem, only one of many. But, having looked into the man’s strange eyes, Tall Bear had a feeling Jack Gregory could play whatever hand he was dealt.
As he crested a rise to see the old Jeep Cherokee where he had left it, Tall Bear paused for one more look back up the canyon. Life on the res had just gotten a whole lot more interesting.